What Are We Doing Here
by Stephane Richer
Summary: little rebel boy can't even buy his own cigarettes


What Are We Doing Here

Disclaimer: don't own.

Note: I always kinda thought Cang would be the emo delinquent and Bazz would be the wannabe punk Cang felt sorry for. I hope it doesn't sound too contrived haha

* * *

He comes to school in combat boots on the first day, raising that garish pink hair that's already standing on end so that it brushes the door frame and it makes him scowl—he should know better, but he probably just wants the attention. It's a stupid thing to go after around here if anyone's asking Cang, but then again no one ever does. They leave him alone for the most part; occasionally someone will pick a fight with him but he'll beat them soundly like he always does and then lie low.

His name is Bazz; it's weird but no weirder than the rest of him—the kind of parent who would give their kid a name like that is the kind of parent who would let their child dye his hair pink and style it into a Mohawk at the age of sixteen and would let him become a punk, encourage it even—that kind of parent would buy him a studded leather jacket.

He gets beaten up; he's scrawny and talks back; he comes to school with bruises he wears like badges of honor and the girls avoid him and wrinkle their noses and the boys roll their eyes and the teachers whisper because they know what's going on but they don't know if there's anything they can or should do about it. It should all blow over once they find a new target, but Bazz makes himself too easy, goes after trouble—Cang curses at himself for spacing off and thinking about that guy during class. He could be devising ways to kill each of his classmates and all those damn teachers, or more practically a plan to actually scrape by with passing grades in everything. Fuck, he needs a cigarette right about now. And a nap.

With that in mind he sneaks out of the basement window by the bike rack at lunch, pulls out a cigarette and lights it. He takes a drag and closes his eyes, but the peace doesn't last. There's a scuffle approaching, and raised voices. At least it's probably not a teacher, but he'd really rather not witness yet another fight—he's already more involved than he wants to be.

Then they come into view, two guys on the basketball team and _him_, pink hair flopping down over his face and blood oozing from his cheek. The basketball guys are roughing him up and he's yelling crap about taking the heat and flailing his arms—of course he knows nothing about fighting. It's not going to end well either way, so Cang takes one last drag before he drops the butt and squishes it under his heel.

The basketball guys are easy to take care of; they're strong but average fighters at best and worried about appearances but they scuttle away like the slimy crabs they are and Cang brushes off his uniform.

"If you're going to go around fighting, at least learn how to do it right," he says.

Bazz stares at him; the way his hair is falling now he looks kind of like a lost rabbit and it would be almost cute if he wasn't sneering like that.

"Gimme a cigarette."

"No. Why the fuck should I do that?"

Bazz scowls and scuffs his boot on the ground, and Cang grins—little rebel boy can't even buy his own cigarettes; it would be funny if it wasn't so sad, if he wasn't trying so goddamn hard. What is he even rebelling against, anyway?

"You want me to teach you how to fight?"

He sticks out his chin like the petulant child he is; Cang rolls his eyes and wonders if it would be more worth it to revoke the offer or just walk away and find somewhere to take a nap when Bazz huffs.

"Fine."

* * *

Cang gets both of them jobs with his uncle's moving company, mostly because the pay is half-decent but also to build up Bazz's strength. He puts on muscle remarkably well and soon he's tearing the sleeves off his jackets and shirts to show off his ripped biceps; his appearance is even more provocative now (despite the long hours and heavy lifting his head's always perfectly shaved and that strip of hair is always perfectly pink and standing on end) but people stay away because he looks scary. He grows a few centimeters, too; he's still not as tall as Cang but he probably weighs more. He can throw a decent punch, now, too; with the force of his strength there's finally something to his previously-empty threats about bringing the heat. And soon Cang can just let him be and let him fight and when school resumes he'll go back to smoking alone by the bike rack or the baseball field or somewhere, but he kind of doesn't want to and it makes him uncomfortable. He's made his peace with being alone before; the idea's always been appealing even when he's had a few temporary friends. But he wants to stay near Bazz, listen to his overly-profane jokes and light his cigarettes and tell him how stupid he is and hear him pontificate about how he's totally going to stick it to the man tomorrow (and he never does).

* * *

"How'd you get that scar?"

Cang absently reaches up to his mouth but Bazz's lips get there first, soft and warm and wet and sour like morning breath and cigarette smoke and it should be revolting but it isn't, the way Bazz's tongue traces the thin white line and then over his lips, the way Cang knows already at what angle to place his tongue because he's memorized the shape of Bazz's sneer over and over again on those lunch breaks when Bazz has been too wrapped up in himself to notice the way Cang's been looking at him.

Bazz is half-paralyzed and totally doesn't know what to do; it's typical so Cang kisses the corner of his mouth and slides over and Bazz responds enthusiastically again, and neither of them really knows exactly what they're doing but it's fun as hell.


End file.
